Oh gods alive,

Oh gods alive,
the beauty and sadness of all...
The heady soup of my nature,
Earth and sky,
stone and ether,
made from each other,
The figure eight of eternity;
Don't you see?

Perfect imperfection,
I can feel it deep
deep swirling in my head,
my ribcage;
that universe of universes
and song-filled black hole
just the depth, the depth of it-
Counter-clockwise
as energy goes, a black hole,
But perhaps in name only,
could a black hole accept, create,
or give back rapture?

Heady head,
grounded heart,
deep gut.
Ha, I am matrix,
Woven weaving
Twined, my dear,
Nothing but something
sculpted around other things,
To see, you must confront
what seems like emptiness,
but never ever is.
God is empty space
which we try to put form and substance to,
Then missing the point entirely:
Masked and cloaked and idolized,
Perhaps we do the same to ourselves...

I worship
the all in,

everything:
I want to swallow, and have swallowed the sun,
And I have been swallowed in return